by Lark, Sarah
Adrianus van Stout had wanted a son, but after Doortje, Bentje had not become pregnant again for many years. Doortje had been forced to hear her parents pray every day to be blessed with male offspring. Only when Doortje was already eight years old was Johanna born. Another girl. Adrianus had resigned himself to bestowing the painstaking, puritanical education he had wanted for his son on Doortje. She learned the history of her country. She learned who her enemies were and how to fight them. She learned how she was to be a proper Boer woman, hard on herself and others. No one had ever seen Doortje van Stout cry since her sister was born.
But then God had relented and sent his servant Adrianus two sons. Since then, Mees and Thies had been at the center of the family. Mother and sisters coddled them, and their father was utterly devoted. Until he had gone to war a few months before, he had instructed the boys every day—both could already shoot and speak a little English.
As for Doortje’s education, Adrianus considered it complete. She could write and read the Bible, not to mention shoot and manage a household. Nothing more was proper for a Boer girl. But Doortje could not get enough. After evening prayers, she would sneak to the bookshelf where, next to the family Bible, stood two English books. By the miserable light of a candle, she would struggle through the strange language of William Shakespeare, developing an ever-greater vocabulary. Cousin Cornelis, however, had laughed when he heard her speak English for the first time.
“Doortje, that’s not how the English talk anymore! Those books were written hundreds of years ago.”
After that, he had secretly lent her more-modern books, like Dickens and Kipling. Cornelis’s family, the Pienaars, lived in Transvaal and had taken part in the Great Trek. Another branch of his family, however, had stayed behind at the cape and now made wine there. This was a deadly sin in the eyes of Adrianus van Stout.
“Father says God will punish them for it one day,” Doortje had once told Cornelis anxiously. She hoped his family would not be smitten right away. She liked Cornelis very much, even if he sometimes thought forbidden things and even did them.
“Well, so far, he’s just made the grapes grow abundantly,” Cornelis had replied irreverently. The young man had visited his relatives many times. “The Cape Boers are richer than us, you know.”
Cornelis’s parents, too, thought it important for him to learn English, but for more practical reasons. And Cornelis did not learn from a dusty lesson book. He was supposed to get to know the Englishmen. Cornelis now spoke fluent English, and he was happy to pass on his knowledge to Doortje. However, she worried about his exposure to corrupting influences.
Doortje tore herself from her thoughts and tied on a lily-white apron. Bentje was still out in the living room, telling the children how Andries Pretorius had set after the fleeing Zulu warriors.
“He took with him one hundred fifty riders on ponies. Yes, one hundred fifty against the many thousands of Kaffirs. And with them, he drove the hordes into the river. God guided their bullets. They shot at the heathens as at rabbits, and the river ran red with their blood.”
Doortje wondered whether it had not simply been the sight of the stampeding ponies that had driven back the Kaffirs. In one of Cornelis’s books, there had been talk of the ancient Greeks, who did not ride their horses, instead only hitching them to wagons. When they saw the first riders, they took them for centaurs. Perhaps the Zulu had been similarly misled. But of course, they deserved it, because they were dirty heathens.
Doortje was untroubled by Cornelis’s argument that the Zulu had simply never heard of God the Father or God the Son before the whites came. After all, her mother said that was proof of their lesser value. God had not bothered to reveal himself to them.
Content with her appearance, Doortje entered the front room.
“Shall we hold devotion now?”
Bentje van Stout raised her head, and Doortje looked into her eyes, startled as always by their empty gaze. Her mother had once moved through the world like a hawk, from which no detail escaped. But then God had punished her with blindness. Doortje tried not to think about the Englishman who said he could heal it. Her mother was no doubt right to submit to God’s will and reject the enemy’s offer.
“Yes, yes, of course, child,” Bentje answered. “I’ve almost finished my story. I only wanted to tell of the land our forefathers took possession of. Johanna, go get Aunt Jacoba and Cousin Antina. Maybe one of them can come to devotion.”
Doortje reached for the family Bible. “I’ll go into the sickroom later and read a few verses to Willem and Cornelis too.”
She had wanted to hold devotion there, but Thies and Mees’s room was simply too small. It was quite dark too. But easily defensible with only one way in. She would not make that grave mistake again. Doortje cringed to think how ashamed her father would be that she’d allowed the farm to be taken.
Bentje finished her story while Doortje sought a suitable Bible passage for devotion. Suddenly, a knocking came from the door, then the window. Doortje recognized the angular face and dark hair of the English doctor. No, not English, supposedly. Where did he come from? New Zealand, wherever that was. He gesticulated wildly when he saw Doortje had noticed him.
“Miss, that is, Mejuffrouw van Stout.” Doortje almost had to laugh at his mangled pronunciation. “Please, may I have a brief word?”
Doortje reluctantly got up. They had agreed to ignore the men, but if she did not act now, the bothersome fellow might disturb their devotion. And Jacoba and Antina desperately needed comfort.
“Yes?”
Doortje opened the door and looked coldly at the doctor. For the first time, she really looked him in the eye, exerting herself not to notice how handsome he was, with his fine features, blue eyes, and full lips. Yet he also looked exhausted. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, and wrinkles formed around his mouth.
“Mejuffrouw van Stout, you’re a clever woman,” Kevin began somewhat desperately. “You must recognize the condition that young man we brought here is in.”
“My cousin Cornelis,” Doortje replied. “His life lies in God’s hands.”
“Your cousin,” Kevin repeated, his voice betraying relief. “Miss van Stout, you have to let us operate on your cousin. If we don’t, he’ll die of blood loss.”
“My cousin is recovering,” Doortje said. “My aunt Jacoba says he has not lost a drop of blood in hours.”
Kevin sighed. “Of course not, or he’d be dead already. Miss van Stout, Dr. Tracy and I tied off his leg. At the moment, no blood is flowing at all. That means, in a few hours, the only option will be to amputate it.”
“He can live with one leg,” Doortje responded, but it was hard for her to feign confidence.
Cornelis was more bookworm than farmer. But he had not wanted to become a pastor, nor even a clerk like Martinus. He loved riding out into the veld and observing animals; once, he had admitted to her that he would like to be a veterinarian. His parents would never let him study, though. Nevertheless, he had lovingly cared for the ponies and helped the cattle calve. That would be hard with one leg.
“He’ll die in that case, too, Miss van Stout, if we don’t operate,” Kevin pressed. “The leg won’t simply fall off. It’ll rot slowly. It’s much worse than bleeding to death. He must already be in terrible pain. Is he conscious?”
Doortje bit her lip. She had avoided approaching Cornelis’s bed. It was too painful to see her friend and cousin so pale and sick.
“I do not think so,” she replied, speaking for the first time in a normal voice. “I believe he is still sleeping.”
Kevin nodded. “Thank goodness. But he won’t stay like that, Miss van Stout. He’ll wake up, and he’ll die in horrific pain. Let me operate on him, Miss van Stout, please.”
Doortje eyed the doctor. He really seemed to be serious. But how could a subject of the English Crown care so much about a Boer? Doortje hardened herself anew as she had been taught to do.
“I do not make decisions for my c
ousin, Doctor. His mother is with him. Speak with her.”
Kevin would have liked to shake the girl. She was so smart, and yet she was condemning her cousin to death from sheer stubbornness, blind patriotism, and adherence to a merciless faith.
Desperately, he pointed to the Bible in Doortje’s hand. “Ever read that?” he asked. “I mean not just the ‘eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth’ passages, but really read it? Some of it’s about charity. About love for your neighbor. About help for the helpless. Do you really believe your cousin wants to die? Will you play executioner when God has sent someone who can help?”
Kevin turned away before Doortje could reply. But now, her mother was calling from inside. The young woman followed the call, although she felt quite dizzy. Oil lamps lit the room, but Doortje fumbled with her Bible as if she were blind. She opened to a random passage. The first book of Samuel: “So the Lord saved Israel that day.”
That seemed suitable. It was something about the war between the Israelites and the Philistines, and Israel seemed to be at a disadvantage. Just like the Boers at the moment. Doortje began to read. “‘And the men of Israel were distressed that day: for Saul had adjured the people, saying, “Cursed be the man that eateth any food until evening, that I may be avenged on mine enemies.” So none of the people tasted any food. And all they of the land came to a wood; and there was honey upon the ground. And when the people were come into the wood, behold, the honey dropped; but no man put his hand to his mouth: for the people feared the oath. But Jonathan heard not when his father charged the people with the oath: wherefore he put forth the end of the rod that was in his hand, and dipped it in a honeycomb, and put his hand to his mouth; and his eyes were enlightened.’”
Doortje stopped, distressed. His eyes were enlightened? God healed a blind man by having him break an oath? Her hands cramped around the Bible.
“‘Then answered one of the people, and said, “Thy father straitly charged the people with an oath, saying, ‘Cursed be the man that eateth any food this day.’” And the people were faint. Then said Jonathan, ‘My father hath troubled the land.’”
Doortje’s voice died off. This could not be. She lowered the Bible, then lifted it hastily again and opened to a different passage.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the Lord, and depart from evil. It shall be health to thy navel, and marrow to thy bones. Honor the Lord. Amen.’”
The verse had not reached its end, but Doortje thought that was enough. Her listeners seemed happy and comforted, despite the strange passage. The second had been right. She must not think she was wiser than God. She must trust in him.
Doortje van Stout breathed in deeply. “Shall we say a few prayers? Mother?”
Bentje van Stout began to intone a prayer. Then, however, she was interrupted by a cry from the sickroom. It was Antina, who had stayed with Cornelis.
“Aunt Jacoba, your son is waking up,” Antina said.
Jacoba turned her eyes to heaven. “Thank the Lord,” she whispered.
Bentje and the others repeated the phrase. “Thank the Lord.”
Only Doortje stayed quiet.
Doortje spent almost the whole following night in a desperate search for that first Bible verse. But she couldn’t find it no matter how she turned the pages by the feeble light of the oil lamp. It might have been that she was so distracted. Again and again, she heard the groaning and the screams from the sickroom. She exchanged a few words with Jacoba or Antina when she went to the kitchen to make tea or prepare a poultice.
“It eases his pain,” averred Jacoba, looking more and more desperate as the night wore on.
Doortje thought about what the doctor had said. Usually herbs would ease the pain, but not in this case, not if his leg was already dying. She took her brother in her arms when he came into the room, unable to sleep.
“Cornelis won’t stop moaning, Doortje. Can’t God make his leg stop hurting?”
Doortje bit her tongue. But then, sometime after midnight, she could not take it any longer.
“I can watch him awhile, Aunt Jacoba,” she offered as she entered the sickroom. “You should lie down. You look exhausted.”
“But I—I can’t just leave him.”
Jacoba looked as if she were about to shatter into a thousand shards. Her day on the battlefield had been long. She had followed the commando and had seen it annihilated. Seen her husband die. Jonas Pienaar had been the leader.
Doortje still remembered how he had called the men together. Her own father and her fiancé had already set out. They had leaped onto their horses the moment war was declared. But the Pienaars had waited. Until things looked bad for the Boers. Until luck sided with the British. Was it luck? Or God? Or simply the fact that a hundred thousand soldiers from all parts of the British Empire had landed on the coast? Cornelis had thought the latter.
Doortje stepped close to his bed. “You don’t mind if I stay awhile with you, do you, Cornelis? Your mother needs to rest.”
The wounded man nodded. Doortje was horrified by his appearance. His face was deathly pale, sharp, and sunken, but his eyes seemed to burn. Surely, he had a fever.
“Go, Aunt Jacoba,” Doortje encouraged his mother again. “Rest.”
Antina had already given in to her exhaustion. She lay snoring on a mat next to her husband.
Doortje sat on Cornelis’s bed once Jacoba had reluctantly withdrawn. He groaned.
“Is it very bad?” she asked.
Cornelis nodded again. He seemed unable or unwilling to speak. Maybe he was afraid he would scream. Doortje went to hold his hand—and found shreds of the sheet in his fingers. He tore at it, desperately, in his pain.
“I’m dying,” he managed. “For nothing.”
Doortje stroked his hair, which was soaked with sweat. She remembered how angry Jonas Pienaar had been at his eldest when it was time for their commando to depart. Cornelis had arrived last and tried to change the men’s minds.
“We can’t hold Wepener. There are too many of them; you all saw for yourselves how many troops they’re massing. We—”
“We’ll attack them from behind,” his father had proclaimed. “We’ll be like hornets that fall upon them.”
“But a few hornet stings are not going to drive them away,” Cornelis had insisted.
He had looked like the other Boers in his corduroy pants, his thick jacket over his vest, and with the Boer hat on his head, while his father had donned some sort of general’s costume. Doortje had wondered where he could have gotten it—or the bowler hat he wore on his head. She wasn’t sure whether the effect was imposing or laughable.
“We can kill a few, sure,” Cornelis conceded, “but to what end?”
“To what end?” Jonas had drawn his old-fashioned saber—naturally, he’d be fighting with a rifle, but he seemed to think the sword indispensable if he wanted to look like an officer. Now he waved it in his son’s face. “You ask why we should kill this race of snakes? Quite simple: So they don’t kill us! And so they don’t produce any more children to kill our children. Death to the English! With God’s help, we shall wipe them from the face of this, our promised land!”
The men of the unit, barely a hundred in number, cheered. They had elected Jonas Pienaar by an overwhelming majority and now felt confirmed in their choice.
“So, will you join us, Cornelis Pienaar, or are you going to hide on your farm like a cowardly Kaffir while we liberate our country?” asked Willem DeWees, the husband of Antina, Cornelis’s cousin.
Doortje had looked in Cornelis’s tortured face and wondered at his hesitation. She would have left with the men at once. When her father had left, she had once again regretted that she’d been born a girl. Yet, on the other hand, she had never thought Cornelis a coward.
“He won’t have a farm anymore if he proves to be a chicken now,” Jonas Pienaar de
clared. “In fact, he won’t even be my son. Right, Jacoba?”
Jacoba glared at her son. “You’ll never set foot in our home again.”
Cornelis had lowered his head and simply added his pony to the column of others. That was how he had gone to war. And now he lay here.
Doortje made a decision.
“You’re not going to die,” she said quietly. “Wait—and don’t make a sound. Don’t wake Antina. And for heaven’s sake, not your mother.”
Kevin started awake when someone shook him. Despite his concern for the dying boy, he had slept deeply, bone tired after the endless day. Now he thought he was hallucinating when he saw the face of the girl hovering over him. Not composed, cool, or mocking as usual, but excited and afraid. Doortje’s strict coiffure beneath her bonnet had loosened. The braids were hanging down, and her hair was freeing itself from the braids. How beautiful it would look falling loose around her face.
“Doortje,” whispered Kevin. “For-forgive me, Meju—”
“Do not talk,” Doortje said coolly. “Just save my cousin.”
Chapter 7
While Kevin roused the other doctors, Doortje led a few strong orderlies into the house. Though she had hoped to sneak Cornelis out unnoticed, her cousin Antina slept too lightly for that. She awoke and wailed, which woke Cornelis’s mother, as well as Bentje and Johanna van Stout. But the sleep-dazed women were easy to overpower. Two orderlies held them fast. The others carried the wounded man. Kevin heard the cries of protest and curses—and felt sorry for Doortje and the hell she’d have to pay. Kevin chided himself for not having kept her in the barn. Then she could have claimed the dastardly English had taken her by surprise as well. Soon, however, he forgot the women in the house and devoted himself entirely to saving his patient. The more experienced surgeons, Barrister and McAllister, took over the operation itself. Kevin was responsible for the anesthesia, but it was hard to correctly dose the ether so that the man, weak from blood loss, did not die from it. In the end, though, Barrister was able to save his life, and even the leg.
